


he lives in you (and in the night)

by colferstilinski



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bloodplay, Canon Compliant, Darkness, Light Bondage, M/M, Painplay, Post 3a, Powerplay, Read further warnings inside, dark!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colferstilinski/pseuds/colferstilinski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Stiles notices something different about himself, something that doesn't fit into the societal criteria of things that aren't fucked up, is when Derek slammed into his personal space.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Filled for a Teen Wolf kink meme prompt @ [here](http://tnw-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/4905.html?thread=606761#t606761) and it's still a WIP, so pardon me!
> 
> Further warnings:  
> \- Descriptive blood play (so, if that irks you, don't.)  
> \- Descriptive desires that are sometimes morbid (deals with character wanting to inflict pain on others, and sometimes himself)  
> \- Post Season 3A where Stiles' darkness contributes a lot for this... fucked up-ness.  
> \- Individual warnings will be updated per chapter as I go (I'm thinking probably another 1-2 more but they'll be noted at the top in case people get triggered, but, well. It's a triggery fic by itself, SO CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED!)  
> \- p/s: Do let me know if I need to include any additional warnings because my tolerance is pretty high so I'm quite unbeknownst of those with milder tolerance levels.

The first time Stiles notices something different about himself, something that doesn’t fit into the societal criteria of things that aren’t fucked up, is when Derek slammed into his personal space and pushed him back onto the door of his room, handle digging at the small of his back that made his toes curled up instinctively from the sharp flare of _hurt_.

He fucked his cock raw after Derek left, until the lotion on his dick became sticky instead of slick and his balls wept from drawing up with another oncoming orgasm.

Stiles doesn’t deliberate much on it as it’s also the same time that his fill for adderall quickly depletes and there were too many things going on—werewolves actually exist, murders were dropping at their feet and god, werewolves fucking _exist_.

It sprung up again when they were in his jeep and Derek cuffed him at the nape, claws digging into the thin of his skin before his head get hurled forward, smashing it against the wheel. His forehead _throbbed_ , and the bright heat bedded under his nails like an unsaid taunt, almost too much like reverence that he choked on his arousal.

He flailed out of the car, definitively not dealing with any of it.

Stiles doesn’t seek it out anymore after that, not for months. However, if he sometimes brings up the distant memory of that ache as he strips his dick, pants pushed to mid-thigh, he doesn’t admit—doesn’t press on.

Until Derek was wearing a shirt that looked like it had braved through many wash cycles, face smug pressed with a suggestion as they were brainstorming in the loft that Stiles _asked_ for it.

“Let’s see it, big guy.” Stiles challenged and he knew his eyes must have been so bright with eagerness, but he can’t help it. He awaited the lash, counted the seconds down until he saw that insufferable look from Derek, the _god, you’re just a little shit, aren’t you?_ look. When the punch landed on his palm, making his bones vibrate, marrow deep with a swift pang of its sweet delivery that Stiles quickly retracted his hand against his chest, cradling the ache like a new born.

It took a few seconds of shallow breathing before the little chub in his jeans went away.

From then on, Stiles knows something is wrong. He does, but there just isn’t enough time in a day to deal with. What with Peter and his African voodoo shit, the Alphas and other evil supernatural entities that suddenly decided to tailspin Beacon Hills into a shit storm but after— _after_ Deucalion and the Darach, or when Derek skipped town and then _his sacrificial death_ , something changes again.

It’s sinister and Stiles tastes the tang of copper at the back of his tongue when he first thinks it at Jungle, where Danny invited him out for a casual night to be each other’s wingman because Scott bailed for a three-way date with Allison and Isaac (yeah, he’s not going to even touch that.)

He’s losing himself into the deep pulsing beat of the music, pressed between sweaty gyrating bodies on the dance floor when he sees Danny at the corner of his peripheral, leaning into some stranger and pressing hurried kisses off centre of the other’s lips.

It comes in bright flashes, thinks of pulling Danny away with a fierce force that almost stuns him, to get him on his knees in one of the grime bathroom cubicles in the club and fuck his cock into his throat until the sound of his gagging mutes away his senses—until he pukes and Stiles wouldn’t stop.

Not until Danny is suffocating on his load, thick and bitter and covered with a thin sheen of bile—and _fuck_ , Stiles is hard in his jeans, aching, that he quickly hurries out of the club, catching his breath on the curb.

It’s not a Danny thing, he realizes a day later when they meet up at school and is being thrust with deep dimples and an arm thrown over his shoulders. It’s only until he gets home and Stiles is jerking off rough and hurried, mind moulding fast with fantasies, that he finally understands it’s a _him_ thing—a pain thing, a _morbid desire_ thing.

He’s twitching from his orgasm, gulping in breaths and feels comes dribbling from his chin and realizes how fucked up it is—is _he_ , that he actually came because he caught a waft of blood from where he was chewing furiously at his bottom lip.

Fuck.

Stiles tries not to worry about it which usually falls futile because when night falls and he’s lying alone in bed, brain racing with all these new images that gets him slick at the cockhead—he can no longer deny it. He _wants_ , and there’s a tender fear creeping and it’s too intimidating that he doesn’t go on the internet to search up on it. Thinks that if he does, it’ll be concrete, in black and white and there’s no way back into denial.

Lydia invites him over on the phone on a quiet Friday night, says that it’ll just be the both of them and some chick flicks and he can’t say no to her—been programmed for the past decade with his infatuation for her to just heel and agree to whatever she pleads, that he goes.

… He should have said no.

They’re bundled tight on her bed, socked toes overlapping each other as Lydia weeps over some passionate scene from a movie she chose and quietly confesses into the sleeve of his jacket.

“Stiles,” She starts and it’s barely contained with a following sob. “Is it wrong that I still miss him? That even though he _left_ and I want to hurt him so much for it but yet—I still do.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to comfort her so he stays quiet, peeking down at her. Lydia’s cheeks are flushed, rosy with contained blood and eyelashes clumping with tears and all Stiles can think is how pretty she’ll look if he could take a scalpel and carve thick, jagged lines on them—have her make up drip with agony until it soaks the fair sheets.

He grits his teeth and presses his face into her hair, trying to even his breaths and will his erection away.

Eventually, he mutters, “Jackson’s a dick. Just say the word, Lyds, and I’ll take a plane to London and castrate him for you.”

Lydia peers up at him but her bloodshot eyes aren’t stunned from his words, instead they’re pleased—so pleased, and so naïve that Stiles feels his cock gives an interested twitch in his jeans.

“That’s not necessary,” Lydia grins, small, thankful. “But, just in case, I’m keeping that offer open.”

Stiles tightens his arms around her and thinks of the day Lydia will call him, gasping in wet breaths about Jackson and then it’ll be his hands stained in warm red as he watches the life gurgles out of that poor bastard.

He excuses himself for five minutes in her bathroom when the movie is done, coming into a balled up wad of tissues with a choked off groan as he bites into his knuckles.

-

Stiles is getting grocery shopping done the next day when he spots Derek at an aisle, in deep thought as he juggles between two options of yoghurt at the dairy section. He looks good—normal, and in what Stiles deems are his pyjamas clothes as his usual get up of tight jeans and heavy jackets are missing, replaced with blackened sweats and a snug tank.

“You’re back,” Stiles breaks the ice, approaching Derek with his cart.

Derek looks up at him, acknowledges him even though Stiles is pretty certain that he already knew that he was here the moment his Jeep rolled up. “Cora returned back to Arizona,” He shrugs. “Never liked the heat.”

“So,” Stiles drawls and he’s staring at the ticking vein on Derek’s arm, wonders how it’ll sound if it ever burst—how it’ll feel when that happens against his face. “You’ll be staying for good? Or is it just a temporary shindig? Because I’m pretty sure Isaac has just gotten over his separation issues.”

Derek must have made his decision with the yoghurt and gingerly places it in the basket beside his feet, returning the other on the shelf. “Maybe.”

Stiles laughs dryly, “Man, I forget how much of an asshole you are.”

Derek bends over and a sliver of bronzed skin shows from where his tank rides up, “Takes one to know one, isn’t that right, Stiles?” Then exits by checking him on the shoulder, hard, and tossing a sickened smirk that riles him up even more.

Stiles will deny it but he purchases two bottles of lotion and a small pen knife that he hides under the loaf of bread.

-

Danny catches him at the locker room on Tuesday, after lacrosse practice, convinces Stiles to agree on returning to Jungle again this weekend and promises that he’ll be a better wingman this time round because he was a total jerk and forgot about their plans the last time.

Stiles shakes his head, says it’s not necessary when those images ring up hotly—grazed knees, and slurping on his cock, choking on it. It’s not even five minutes later when he winds up agreeing because, yeah; apparently saying no is a thing he can’t ever do. Especially when it’s to people whom he has put a pedestal on.

Danny dresses him again, makes him wear the tightest jeans that he has at the back of his wardrobe to flaunt his ass-ets (“ _You’re a bottom with that pair of jeans, Stiles. C’mon, just wear it. For me? It’s… eye-pleasing, and_ very _attractive._ ”) and a pressed oxford shirt he wore for picture day.

It’s almost a routine now where they wait in line; get into the club and then inhaling that first bout of sweetened alcohol in the air, mingling with the beginning tanginess of sweat and sex. It’s heady—makes Stiles thicken in his already too tight jeans that are so very unforgiving to his balls, so he clutches onto Danny’s forearm, shouts over the music that he wants a drink.

They walk over to the bar, Stiles pressing elbows onto the bench to wave the bartender over, yelling his drink order. The first hit of neat whiskey to the back of his throat is calming, fiery warmth pooling in his chest and then down to his stomach. Stiles is almost glad that he’s been sneaking shots of his dad’s Jack Daniels the past few years so he can hold his liquor, else fake id or not, he’ll get mocked for low tolerance.

“Aren’t you a little too _underage_ to be drinking?” A voice murmurs at his ear, gruff, and Stiles knows immediately who it is—knows even before he inhales the familiar scent of sandalwood and forest greens.

He spins around, chest puffing with a challenge for playful banter. “Speak for yourself, Hale.” Stiles voices, throat still raspy from taking a shot. “Aren’t you a little too… _straight_ to be here?”

Derek laughs but it’s too soft to catch, just the small movement Stiles catches against his shirt as they broaden and cease. “Not my fault that everyone assumed about my sexuality just because my past known dating history were all females.”

Stiles hums and maybe it’s liquid courage or the fact that he can see the line of Derek’s pecs through the v of his shirt and how he kind of wants to see how good it’ll look with the glint of the pen knife at the back of his pocket against all that muscle.

“Bet you’d be a good bottom too, won’t you?” Stiles sneers and it doesn’t come out nasty but hoarse and kind of baiting. “All these muscular guys that think they’re toppy tops until you push a thumb into their ass, and they’re groaning for your cock. Jackpot, isn’t it?”

Derek’s eyes darkened and Stiles is drawn into it, watches the bright yellows, and greens, and hushed browns get overwhelmed by the dilation. “Thought you were a virgin?”

“A lot has changed in the past six months since you went away.” Stiles shrugs and he can feel the weight of that knife at the back of his pocket, almost taunting him—too telling of his admittance. “That, for an example.”

Derek’s lips are pulled thin but his eyes give away. Such expressive eyes, Stiles thinks, and wonders how they’ll look when it tears up. “And this— _guy._ Does he know he fucked an underage kid, or?”

“Considering that I’ve seen people get killed before my eyes,” Stiles starts and he leans closer to Derek as the music around them gets louder. He’s so close that Stiles can smell the faint scent of shampoo at the tips of his hair. “The innocence of my virginity getting stripped away is quite insignificant in comparison.”

Derek’s breath is warm against his neck, “You’re still a kid, though.”

And _that?_ That is not okay—who the fuck does Derek think he is? That he can just return back to Beacon Hills after going missing in action for half a year and then _dictate_ what Stiles can or cannot do due to his age? He has seen awful things, and conjured even worse thoughts. He has no right—no fucking _right._

Anger feeds greedily into his veins and then Stiles is suddenly grabbing a handful of Derek’s hair, jerking his head back with a force that almost startles him because Derek is _wincing_ at him, one eye squinted close and other seeping beta blues.

“That what you tell yourself when you have thoughts of fucking me, Derek?” Stiles snarls into his ear and his nails are digging into scalp. Derek growls at him but it gets lost, muted in the music except Stiles can feel the vibrations against his chest. Fuck, when did they get so close?

“When you’re in bed at night, trying to take the edge off and suddenly you’re thinking of impaling your fat cock into this untouched ass? That _it_?”

“Shut up,” Derek snaps, eyes clenching shut. “Just— _shut up_.”

Stiles smirks and he just knows that Derek would look so beautiful while crying, fucking breath-taking, really. He edges his nails deeper, wants to see how far he can push—how much Derek can take before he crumbles with resolute and defeat.

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it, _doll_.”

“—Stiles?”

Danny’s voice comes at a distance and it’s like a douse of cold water. Stiles quickly untangles his fingers from Derek’s hair, fumbling upright against the bench. Danny is slowly stumbling towards them, pushing through the crowd, eyes flitting warily between them but they look a little dazed, as though he went to the back room to do a line. _Asshole._

“Oh? I didn’t know your cousin was back in town.”

“Not his cousin,” Derek huffs plaintively and Stiles is still looking at him, doesn’t know why he can’t steal his eyes away. And god, he looks a little wrecked with his hair dishevelled and clothes a little unkempt from where Stiles had a hand fisted in.

“Yeah,” Danny drawls dubiously. “I see that my services are of no requirement so I’m gonna—yeah.” Then he makes his exit only to get pulled into some random guy’s chest, grinding up against him, after he takes a few steps.

It’s only after that splash of reality when Stiles realizes that he’s _hard._ Not just half-mast as he was the entire evening ever since they stepped into the club, but pressing against the zipper of his jeans that he’s pretty sure is going to create some kind of indentation on his shaft.

Stiles finally drags his eyes away from where Danny is getting lost in some heavy over the clothes frottage with that stranger the he sees that Derek is no longer in front of them— _gone._ And the only evidence that Stiles even encountered him during the night is the fucking hard-on he has in his insufferable jeans _because_ of him.

He’s not a big fan of blue balls (never that type of pain, christ, he’s not _that_ much of a masochist) so he grabs a guy closest to the bar, some random stranger that shares the same built as him, lean but not overly muscled and has blonde shaggy locks. Drags him to a dark corner of the club and then presses him up against the war, slipping a hand into his pants to jerk him off, dry without spit.

Stiles is pulling onto the guy’s hair too, edging it a little rough, and when a soft pained whine escapes the guy’s mouth, it motivates him further. Seconds later, Stiles comes excruciatingly in his jeans, imagining its _Derek_ making that wet noise, guttural and at the shell of his ear, telling him that it _hurts_ —that his little fragile, human hand is making a werewolf feel pain.

Yeah, he may be spiralling a little.

-

It could be a Derek thing, Stiles figures, because the ideas and fantasies that flits in his head the next couple of days gets him flustered and horny and _fuck_ , he hasn’t want to sink his cock brutally and rip tender skin at the rim of someone’s— _Derek’s_ asshole as much as he does now.

He also wants to smear that drip of blood against his lips, taste the tangy headiness from a place so intimate before he allows Derek to lick it away with a kiss, wash it slick with spit and teeth that gets too sharp with the full moon.

-

Stiles kicks open the door to Derek’s loft without knocking because he’s pretty certain that everyone inside is already creating a raucous with this impromptu “pack” meeting to even hear him. He’s not even sure why _he’s_ here or the reason Derek mass texted everyone to be here but he’s thinking it’s probably a formal acknowledgement that he’s back in Beacon Hills, although he’s well acquainted with that information.

Not that the other werewolves and supernatural shit aren’t in the loop either because he’s certain that they’re able to smell Derek the moment he drove into state.

“Stiles’ here,” He hears Scott announcing enthusiastically through the thin walls and ushers into the living hall where he catches most of the chatter is coming from.

“Sup—” Stiles starts and then startles, realizing that _everyone_ is here. Well, the people who are still alive in kicking in Beacon Hills that is, except Danny. “—everyone. Uh, wow. Is this like a party or?”

“We’re just catching up.” Lydia quips up from the lounge chair and Stiles has half a mind to squeeze in with her when he notices that Derek isn’t around. The host—the person that sent said mass text. Not that he notices miniscule Derek type things like that—but, you know.

He’s observant.

“Where’s the Grinch?” Stiles asks flippantly, tries for aloof while nodding to Isaac who’s waving at him with a smile that looks too large for his small face. “Bailing on this teenage mess already?”

“He’s in the kitchen, getting some stuff.” Allison tells and gives him a hesitant dimpled smile. Lydia, though, gives him a wary look, like she just _knows_ which makes Stiles’ heart miss a beat. He coughs out a weak laugh to cover it up because fucking _werewolves_.

That woman is too smart for her own nature and Stiles may still be terrified of her on some days but then he remembers that night in her room, her sweet tears and trembling upper lip—and Jackson’s _warmth_ coating on his hands, that it doesn’t dig much of a reaction from him anymore.

“Cool.” Stiles acknowledges then makes a flailing hand gesture. “I’m just— gonna grab a coke or something that Derek has stored in his fridge. You guys want anything?”

There’s a chorus of no’s and Stiles takes that as his cue.

He stumbles into the kitchen with not that much of practiced grace and sees Derek hunching over the sink, sturdy and thick shoulders prominent in his go-to leather jacket while a steady hum of having knife slicing against wood coming at every alternate second.

Stiles laughs, comments brazenly when he sees Derek chopping up carrot sticks. “Didn’t know you were turning into one of those vegetarian activists, is that a thing—or _trend_ now? Saving the animals, or what’s not?”

“Stiles,” Derek acknowledges but doesn’t look at him although Stiles can see him tightening his jaw as though it’s such a burden to be in the same room as him. Such great manners, really. “Isn’t for me. Lydia’s just being a little princess with her orders.”

“Aw,” Stiles coos mockingly. “And here I was thinking that you were trying to save the bunnies.”

That must have pushed the wrong (or right, so very right) button because Derek growls low in his throat, rough before it chokes off wetly, and then Stiles is watching the flood of red spilling over the carrots and the chop board as Derek accidentally slices a thick layer of skin off from his index finger.

“Christ—” Derek gasps, probably from shock and stills completely, clutching his finger against chest, effectively ruining his shirt.

And Stiles— he can’t fucking pull his eyes away. Breath hitching sharply as he watches, fucking _gazes_ , really, how the blood seeps into fabric. The radiant bloom of red against grey and Derek’s so quiet beside him, eyeing the way his skin is probably healing under all that mess while oozing out the wound completely.

It should disgust him, probably set him with mortification for life, yet the smell of rusted iron and Derek’s wafting cologne is assaulting his nostrils, getting him hard in mere seconds. Fuck, and he knows Derek could probably smell his arousal (Scott always whine his name petulantly, scrounging up his nose whenever Stiles accidentally lets his mind wander when they’re talking, telling him to quit it) and he’s probably going to be put off by Stiles and his morbid fascination but—

God. Derek looks good— _great_ in blood.

“— _Stiles._ Snap out of it and hand me a tissue.” Derek grits low and his nostrils are flaring but not distastefully, unlike Scott’s usual reaction. He’s not even looking straight on at Stiles, just off the corner.

Stiles doesn’t know what prompt him to do it. He can’t even blame it on alcohol this time, maybe its adrenaline courage. Or that he’s been fucking his cock into his fist for _weeks_ , thinking of Derek’s flesh dusted asshole, and knives, and curling fingers into hair before he _yanks_ , that he does it.

He snatches Derek’s arm, wrapping slender, pale fingers around wrist and gazes into those familiar light eyes, asking for—permission? Allowance? Maybe its admittance, a silent confession that Stiles _needs_ this, that Derek is the only person that could give him what he _aches_ for.

Derek isn’t pulling his arm back but just watching him, flitting from his still bleeding finger and into his eyes. They’re filled with curiosity and long gone was the previous animosity but darker than that. A shade of clouded arousal that Stiles remembers distinctly from that night at Jungle.

Stiles takes that as his go-ahead and inches his head forward, just a little—a small tilt. The first hesitant flick of tongue against the dribble of blood that is slicking down Derek’s finger coats thick and harshly sweet against the sharp tip of his tongue. He doesn’t moan but something resonates in his chest, like a gratifying rumble.

Then, he falls.

Stiles pops the now purpled finger into his mouth and starts suckling on it, lapping wetly in between the hinges of fingernail and the now stitched up skin. There’s no more source from where it’s bleeding and Stiles wants to whine, wants it to fill his cheeks until they’re overflowing at the corners of his mouth.

He doesn’t even realize that he has his eyes closed, enjoyment reaming in his pores and a palm pressing onto Derek’s hips when he feels warm puffs of air fanning against his cheeks. Slowly, eyelids fluttering open and Stiles sees the slackened gaze of Derek’s—sharp and with the familiar bite of arousal that eats around the lightness of his eyes.

Stiles doesn’t want to pull Derek’s finger out, likes the taste of slicked flesh but then he hears the rattle of Scott calling for him and he reluctantly pulls off, giving a few kitten licks at the tip.

He has a thumb rubbing at the sharpened edge of Derek’s hipbone and Stiles knows that he must smell like the salty bite of pre-come that is pooling in his boxers. Derek is gazing at his lips though, fascinated.

“Well,” Stiles starts, smirking and licks the residue of blood and spit at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like we traded dirty secrets, didn’t we?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Underage drinking (should this even be warned when it's for a fic like this?)  
> \- Dubious consent of bondage/torture (even though it's not really 'reality')  
> \- Slight vampirism  
> \- A little bit of reverse power play  
> \- Yeah, tell me if I missed anything out.

Stiles starts to bring that little pocket knife wherever he goes, settles it in his back pockets as a reminder for _soon_ , especially now that Derek prompts more ‘spontaneous’ meetings in his loft. Stiles knows what’s going on—c’mon, he’s not _oblivious_ , and Derek baits like a man that has never discovered or mastered the art of subtlety in his years of dating.

He doesn’t blame him. It’s quite adorable. In a stoic, grumpy sense, of course.

Derek is never discreet when he starts to _look_ , tracking each minute movement Stiles makes as though he’s waiting for a given opportunity, eyes flicking back and forth between the pack members in the loft and him. 

_Adorable._

The more time he spends in Derek’s loft as the days grow, he quickly picks up this little habit to rifle through the mediocre teen magazines that Isaac secretly buys as a guilty pleasure (for both himself and Derek), that’s under the tray of the coffee table. It’s not for reading—more like a foray into foreplay, even though they’re not exactly fuck buddies.

No fucking has been done, _yet._

Stiles likes to edge his thumb against the sharp corners of the page, not too divulging that it garners the attention of the rest but just enough that it’ll get Derek to watch him. It’s an easy feat anyway, Derek’s senses are always honed onto him, he notices. It’s always been him, hasn’t it? Even when he was that gangly, annoying teenager a year ago and they’re just scraping the brim of the supernatural occurrences.

When he can feel Derek’s gaze on him, hot and almost suffocating, Stiles would flick his thumb on an upward stroke. He would repeat the action while making the corner pages stand razor sharp so that it’ll successfully prick his thumb in a slice.

It’s _exciting_ , makes his half fattened cock twitch in his pants with this knowledge that he can reduce another person, a _werewolf_ , to a state where he holds all control.

Derek always smells it before the pack, the rusted dollop of red that would seep through the pricked wound. It’s his packaging of human life slowly oozing out, enticing, and Stiles always get entranced by it. Likes to tease with it, urge more blood until it wells and dribbles before he pops it in his mouth. He suckles on it like remembrances of Derek’s finger—that sweet tanginess that he wishes back on his teeth.

“Dude,” Scott says worriedly, looks it too, from the couch. “Another paper cut?”

Stiles speaks around his thumb, makes sure it edges out nicely against his cheek so that it looks like the typical blowjob face. Yeah, he’s an asshole for teasing so much.

“Yeah, man. I’m pretty sure that magazines have an affinity for my fingers now.”

“You look really obscene.” Isaac snorts from beside Scott.

Stiles winks at him, slurps a little around his thumb. Derek gives a put upon sigh as though he’s so done with his shit before he storms out from the living hall. “Thanks, Isaac. My ego has just left the building.”

-

The more he carries on taunting Derek through the weeks, instead of sitting down and talk about it like the adults they are ( _hey, denial is a duo piloted ship_ ), Stiles starts having these vivid dreams. It’s as though his mind can’t shut up even while asleep and they’ve eventually transcended into his subconscious state.

The dreams, though, they come in short bursts during the night. Stiles either wakes up aching at the groin, pulsing with the need for release, or with boxers already wetting with come while his hips are jabbing down on the mattress with fitful thrusts as he rides out the last few weak spurts his cock twitches out.

It’s heady—makes the thirst accumulate when he’s awake even though Stiles never thinks of such fantasies as detailed before. The only true consistency of them is that Derek’s always starring in them, as he is in his thoughts—only worse. More of their blood pressed between skin and sinew, and the saltiness of tears as Stiles tongues at his cheeks, or the glint of his pocket knife, edging against throat.

The one that Stiles can’t forget, bring up constantly as jerk off material, is that one time where he woke up sweating, fingers clutching on the sheets, want and fervour heating in his blood. It was unbearable, like he needed another hit after being in withdrawal for so long, that and the fact that it didn’t make him uncomfortable with this new-found knowledge that his addiction is _Derek_ —or that his subconscious really wanted macabre stuff.

Stiles remembers still being hazy with sleep, limbs wasted as he palms at his dick, lazy and uneven. His breath hitching whenever his cockhead slips out wetly against the elastic band of his boxers, the scratchy feel of worn in cotton against heated flesh.

The need to get off is coming off in waves, urging and in current, where he’s already at that point where he just want to be _done_ with this so he can squeeze another few hours of sleep before school. So, he rings up his imagination to pick up his discontinued dream.

Derek was lying on his bed, bulky and obtrusive in a teenage boy’s room, but it boiled his skin with fervent heat because Stiles was above him, thighs framing at waist as he leers down at exposed inches of tanned skin, snickering. It was the knowledge that he held the power to reduce a grown man to this, pliant and under him—an underage punk (a fucked up one, too)—that made the want churn heavy and low in his belly.

“You know,” Stiles started, sounding so full of himself. “When I spoke about that theory in Jungle, about tops, I never knew it applied to Alpha werewolves, but look at you.” He muttered, sounding so reverent, so _pleased_. “Hands bound above you and straining. You’ve got nowhere to go and if I had a were’s nose, I’d smell the dribble of pre-come on your cock, won’t I?”

Derek’s hips made an aborted jerk, gaining mild friction against Stiles’ ass, whining at the back of his throat. “You’d make a good wolf too, you know? Such bright eyes to stare down at the lowers. That’s what you’re really into, isn’t it?”

“What?” Stiles scoffed sardonically. “To become a werewolf?”

“No.” Derek huffed, hands straining against the binds that Stiles had previously laced with a tinge of wolfsbane. _(He gives kudos to Dream Stiles because obviously, he’s done his executing well.)_ They’ve just started to bite into the skin and it’s _fascinating_ watching the skin redden, witnessing Derek biting away a grit with each forceful tug.

“No—it’s the power you get from holding the upper-hand, watching someone suffer. To have someone at your total mercy and you are the dictator of their will.” Derek said and he doesn’t even sound hesitant but sure of it. “You get off on it when someone spills their life for you.”

Stiles laughed and it rings against the constrained walls of his bedroom.

“Ah,” Derek hummed after a quick second, correcting. “I meant you get off on it when _I_ spill my life for you. When it’s _my_ warmth, _my_ blood that aches for your pleasure. _That right?_ ”

“We all have skeletons in our closet, Derek.” Stiles murmured, so sweetly against his chest, pressed a gentle kiss against his nipple that’s raised from where he abused it thoroughly between his fingers previously. “Mine’s just a little more… morbid, more literal.”

“That what you want?” Derek tested with a raised voice. It’s not challenging, more like egging. “To fuck me until I’m bruised and battered? Until I’m nothing but a lifeless bod under your cock? For me to die as you come deep seated in my ass?”

Stiles’ breath hitched and _god_ , it’s so true. He wanted that—wanted so badly to play with that little knife he had stashed in his bedside drawer and slice through Derek’s throat until it spurted hot red against his chest. Wanted it like how he had fantasized ripping out Derek’s fingernails and watch him slowly shatter as he tried to heal around the pain.

“Will you?” He asked defiantly and his skin is overheated—too flushed with arousal and need and the earnest _want_ to being covered in Derek’s _life._ “Will you die for me?”

Derek doesn’t answer because it’s a dream and like all great dreams—it ends.

But as Stiles is stripping his cock furiously at the early bouts of night, he thinks of Derek raising a brow at that last second, before the darkness wiped away. He imagines Derek tilting his head back in submission, telling and giving of his permission—muttering ‘Fuck, _yes_. For you, for you— _for you_.’ that Stiles comes painfully around his knuckles.

He falls asleep with white drying on his bedspread and dick still out from his boxers.

-

It’s the first Halloween that Stiles manages to spend it with the pack without worrying about fighting off supernatural baddies. Unlike the previous year, where he sat outside his bedroom, curling into himself for two hours with a maniacal and blood lusting newly changed werewolf Scott chained to his heater, grunting and making eager threats.

He’s been dealt with utter shit in the past twelve months, okay; it’s definitely time for the good luck shoe to drop. Call him optimistic, or whatever—maybe finally spending so much time with Scott for the past decade has managed to rub some change of perspectives in Stiles over the past few months.

Stiles dresses up ingeniously and maybe the costume hits a little too close to home this year. He goes as Light Yagami (or Kira, if you’re being that kind of asshole) from Death note. He has on the white washed oxford (yes, the same one), a sharp red tie that is loosely knotted, finished out with a beige blazer that he requested Lydia’s help picking out and a size too small of gray slacks.

He even goes through the trouble to line his eyes with kohl—it’s not gay liner, shut up.

Scott, however, is a little dubious about his get-up when Stiles answers the bell because they’re carpooling together to Derek’s loft for the Halloween party.

“Dude,” Scott gusts out, confusion wearing on his eyebrows. “What are you going this year? Because it kind of looks like you’re Sherlock Holmes, without the trench coat. I just—don’t get it? Sorry bro.”

“What do you _not_ get? We’ve read the comics and watched the movie _together!_ ” Stiles squawks, preposterous. “No, actually, don’t answer that. Gimme a second.” Then slams the door on Scott who yells at him about his lack of basic etiquette for trick or treating and that’s not how you greet your best friend, asshole!

He snatches up an old beat up notebook that has fallen behind the shelves, blows away the thin film of dust and scribbles ‘Death Note’ messily over the blackened hard cover.

“There!” Stiles flails the notebook in front of Scott’s face when he returns to open the door. “Does it make sense now?”

Scott scrunches his nose in distaste. “Now you just look like a very homoerotic… Mormon.” Stiles makes a strangled, dying whale noise. “It’s the eyeliner, man! Also, I had no idea that your eyes were that brown either— _woah_.”

Stiles scuffs him at the back of his head before he walks off to the garage.

-

The party at Derek’s is mostly in full swing when they both reach—well, as a good a party could get with less than ten people attending. It’s pretty alright though, considering that.

Lydia’s the one that did up most of the Halloween decorations around the loft. Yeah, there’s not much argument left there even when Derek initially refused to get his apartment all dolled up, especially when Lydia started insisting with snipe.

There are bright streamers hanging off the walls, carved pumpkins with wonky faces that Stiles’ pretty sure Isaac did most of them, and the bright scent of fruit punch and melted chocolate lingering in the air.

“Looking good, Stiles.” Lydia comments half-heartedly even though Stiles is pretty certain she’s bursting at the seams of his well-done eyes. “I like the edge you’re bringing with the eyes. And for you, Scott…” She drawls, pursing her lips. “What are you again?”

“I thought I would go for cliché this year,” Scott answers, rubbing his neck that is currently covered in fur, cheeks tinting. Stiles already grilled him earlier in the Jeep for his lame ass attempt for costume because hey, at least _he_ put in the effort this year. Scott just isn’t even trying. “I’m a teen wolf! Isaac thought it would be ironic but Allison said that it’s… complimenting.”

“Yeah,” Stiles scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Complimenting the fact that you didn’t even _need_ to dress up. You just went _rawr_ with your werewolf powers and then _bam_ , you’re done. You didn’t even spare ten bucks to get a pair of fake contacts as a feeble attempt.”

Lydia snorts derisively but Allison chimes from behind her, smiling with her dimples out that Stiles has to look away just because. “I think you look great, Scott. You too, Stiles, you make, uh, a good Sherlock.”

Stiles face palms against his notebook, gritting. “You two truly deserve each other.” Then he sighs, “Now, excuse me because I’m going to drown myself in punch, which hopefully is spiked or I’m really going to maim someone. And Scottie, your ridiculous werewolf _‘costume’_ sure is looking like a primary target.”

“Hey, don’t take it out on me!” Scott yells which Stiles effectively ignores. Instead, he heads for the glistening punch bowl that’s sitting on the counter at the kitchen, already calling his name in several languages.

When he steps into the room, Stiles sees Derek bent over at the refrigerator, rifling through a few of the groceries. There’s a small part of him that knows it’s a definitive of meeting Derek but actually seeing him in the flesh (instead of his darkened fantasies) still makes his palm sweat and his heart jumps a little.

What’s more he’s in the _kitchen_ where their last non-casual interaction happened, with his ass sticking out in his usual pair of tight, black jeans. If Stiles squints hard enough, he’d be able to make out the outline of Derek’s briefs. Or would it be boxers?

Derek closes the fridge with a snap, beer can in hand and spins around with a fluid grace that Stiles can only dream of having, looking unimpressed at him as his nose twitches.

 _Right_ , werewolf nose. Stiles probably isn’t doing any better with what he’s projecting of his scent at the moment as his mind flits quickly to how lovely it’ll be if Stiles could simply… press up against him, palming at the firm globes, easing the curiosity of Derek’s a brief or boxers person.

Or if he goes _commando_ —oh fuck.

“Oh—uh, hi.” Stiles coughs, waving the notebook awkwardly when Derek raises a brow at him. “I didn’t see you there. Well, I mean, I have _now_. Seeing as you’re here. In the kitchen. With me.” _Where I last performed fellatio on your finger because apparently I have a thing about blood and cutting you up— probably killing you too but that’s a dream and dreams don’t necessarily translate to things that one would want in life—right?_

“Stiles.” Derek acknowledges and he sounds amused, like he knows exactly what’s going on in his head. He rakes his eyes on Stiles’ form that looks more predatory than just casual observance.

“Nice… costume.”

“Thanks,” Stiles laughs but it sticks to the back of his throat that sounds into a wet gurgle. “Just—don’t say that I’m dressed up as Sherlock because I swear to all things that are holy, I’ll kill you.” His eyes widen comically when he realizes what he just said. “I mean, not _kill you_ —kill you, but y’know. Not to death, anyway.”

He makes a dry, pained noise. Way to have a foot in the mouth, Stilinski.

“Death note, right?” Derek says airily, pointing at the notebook in his right hand. “If my memory hasn’t failed me—you’re Light?”

Stiles blows out in relief and raises his voice a little, hopeful that Scott catches it from the living hall. “At least _some_ people pay attention and remember the gloriousness of the series.”

Derek’s mouth twitches a little and Stiles momentarily thinks that he would have been such a good Joker if Derek had decided to dress up this Halloween. All rough at the edges, smudged lipstick and crusted blood at temples with those light eyes popping under the thick caking layer of dark eye shadow.

“And I assume this year you’re going as the infamous Derek Hale?” Stiles whistles haughtily. “I really thought you would have stepped up your game, dude.”

“Here I thought that originality isn’t dead. How wrong was I.” Derek deadpans. “Maybe next year I’ll step up my game. Any ideas?”

 _Torso covered in wolfsbane infused cuts and your skin reeking of my come and your blood_ , Stiles thinks deliriously and tightens his grip on the notebook, pulling breaths steadily. “I’ll definitely get back to you on that. Maybe even make a list for you.”

“Speaking about lists,” Derek says, flicks his eyes at his tightly wounded up hand on the book with an ember of curiosity. “Any names in it?”

“Maybe,” Stiles swallows thickly and tries to tamp down the urge to follow it with ‘ _I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you’_. Instead, he answers. “You know better than to ask.”

“True,” Derek answers, eyes glowing blue as he closes the last few steps between them, whispers so softly that Stiles almost doesn’t catch the beginning of it. “But then again—I’ve always been a big fan of playing with fire. Maybe that’s why I ended up being with such fucked up people in the past,” His voice grows even quieter. “—and then, now again.”

Then, walks off as though he hasn’t just admitted one of the biggest confession that Stiles has received in the entirety of, oh, _his life?_ He thinks this triumphs Scott hissing at him in the school compound at ass o’clock in the morning that he got bitten by a wolf in the forest the night before.

Stiles’ breath hitches because— _and then, now again_ —a shiver ghosting under his skin as he thumbs at the spine of his notebook. He thinks of that one lone name on the first page—sitting there, scrawled in messy handwriting and slightly smudged but carries the most importance.

_Derek._

-

The party is slowly dwindling (not that it actually reached a climax throughout the night but, semantics) and the music crowing from the speakers that Scott bought from home has been changed to liquid tunes, melting into bones and alcohol tinged bloodstream.

Everyone’s seating around the living hall, exchanging soft conversations while Stiles is sitting at the spiral staircase, tipping another cup down his parched throat even though it was just fifteen minutes ago that he demolished one of the last beer cans Derek was hiding in the cupboard.

He feels flushed, a warm haziness starting to seep through his conscious state, mellowing out the buzz that he usually feels. It’s at that point of drinking where he’s meandering around the tipping edges of being tipsy and drunk and everything sounds like a good idea to him—especially talking to Derek.

That’s why he’s pulling himself up, lazily willing his legs to work as he walks up the steps to Derek’s bedroom even though sober him probably would berate him on this. Well, sober him can take a seat as he never gets anything done. The most he did do was suck on Derek’s finger but that was impromptu, caused by adrenaline, it doesn’t count.

“It’s y’r name,” Stiles blurts as he stumbles over the bump of Derek’s door. “In the book. The only name that I wrote.”

Derek looks up from where he was situated in a thick book on his bed. He looks so comfortable, unperturbed that Stiles can’t help but think back on all the dreams he had with Derek. Those where Derek’s begging at him, eyes wet and shining or where Stiles is fucking his throat raw as he wrenches on thick hair.

“Really?” Derek asks, setting his book down beside him. “Why’s that so?”

Stiles feels a tight pull in his bones as he staggers towards the bed, knees buckling as soon as they hit the softness of the mattress. He can’t stop his limbs from not moving, already slowly crawling closer to Derek until his thighs are flushed against Derek’s legs.

He knows he probably looks like a wreck to Derek who looks like he just took a shower and changed into his pyjamas—a snug black shirt and basketball shorts. Stiles’ blazer was already long gone when he started to sweat when they began their drinking festivities, hair dishevelled from running his fingers through them, getting the slick of perspiration and eyes smudged beyond a touch up could salvage.

“Yeah,” Stiles gusts out and woah, he’s suddenly so close to Derek, palms pressing against his chest that’s lifting with each shallow pull of breath. “You know the saying ‘play with fire, and you’ll get burned’? I want to make you burn, Derek. Wanna feel it scorching as I drag my playthings against your skin.”

 “You want to do that to me?” Derek asks pensively, lifting a careful hand and places it on Stiles’ waist, balancing him. “With that knife you’ve been bringing everywhere?”

“How—” Stiles hiccups and gusts a sharp exhale over his face, forcing his voice not to wobble. “How did you know about that?”

Derek sits up a little, pulling Stiles’ even closer until their chests are touching—until Stiles is almost sitting in his lap. “Think I can’t smell the rusty tinge of blood on that blade that’s in your back pocket all the time? You like playing with it. A little too much, actually.”

Stiles tries to back away a little, feels a little out of his depth but Derek doesn’t let up so he’s stuck wedged under his scrutinizing stare, almost boring into all the secrets that Stiles has buried at the dark corners of his head.

“You’re not a fan of it?” Stiles asks softly, almost pressing the words against stubble cheeks. Derek smells faintly of face wash and soft traces of shampoo that Stiles wonders if the scent of blood would take that away—stripping him away from the cleanliness.

“Oh, I think we’ve been playing this little game for a little too long, don’t you think, Stiles?” Derek says back. “Where you try to one up me each time? That you can surprise me with this… _enigma?_ ”

“Still doesn’t answer the question though.”

“How about this for a reply?” Derek presses his forehead against his, noses bumping. There’s a quick shuffle of movement before two fingers press against his lips, smearing across and dampening them.

“What—” Then Stiles licks his lips, tasting the richness of Derek against the tip of his tongue, familiar and bursting with flavour that he clutches helplessly onto sleeves, eyes shut as a weak groan leaves his chest.

Derek closes their mouths together, hands cupping Stiles’ face as he seams their lips together, tongues flicking against each other as Stiles starts to chase for another taste. The heavy metallic after bite lingers even when Derek pulls away, pressing lazy kisses off corner of his mouth, whispering, “Now, sleep. I’d rather you remembering me more than your little hurried fucks at Jungle.”

Stiles nods, ignoring that he’s slightly hard in his slacks and crumbles down against Derek’s chest, feeling the pull of alcohol and sleep snatching him away.

When he dreams that night—it’s bright red and in flames as Derek burns, and burns, _and_ _burns._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, all that's left is with a epilogue to sum all this up and we all know that's going to be a load of anal lovin' fun that's heavily dashed with macabre stuff. Also, /I know/, the feelings suddenly crept up at the end but that's probably because I wrote this entire chapter today and there's bound to be a lot of spelling errors/grammar/tenses/etc. It's been... such a ball writing this because this is completely something that I've never dabbled in before but it comes so easy that it makes me wonder if I actually secretly have a kink for this.
> 
> Well, if it's hitting some of those kinks that you thought you never had, leave me a comment and we can share over how messed up we are with Stiles.  
> p/s: How many of you guys think that Stiles would make such a fucking /hot/ Light? I actually blacked out a little while writing it, unf.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Knifeplay  
> \- Bloodplay  
> \- Painplay  
> \- Power exchange  
> \- Not thoroughly negotiated kink and no implemented/said said safe word -- BUT CONSENSUAL  
> \- TYPOS GALORE!

They keep them as a secret for a few weeks while also uncovering festive ways to enjoy each other during Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Stiles remembers fondly of how Derek moaned in garbled bouts, stomach slightly curved with muscles and stuffed with food, how thankful he was for this—for Stiles, that Stiles fucked him slowly and particularly until Derek started whining about how much _more_ he needs.

They’re alone in the loft, the quiet of the post-Christmas party pulling, Stiles assures Derek that the secret keeping isn’t a problem. Whispers in between lazy kisses and fingers entangling that he wants to enjoy the quiet before Scott, or Isaac, or god forbid, _Lydia_ chimes in their awful input about their—uh, relationship?

Derek rolls his eyes but nips at the cold tip of his nose (It’s California, sure, but Stiles’ body refuses all sorts of weather changes) with a soft, understanding voice. “Stiles, accept it. We’re in one of those. I don’t allow just _anyone_ to hurt me,” Then follows in softer voice, “In _that_ way. Just you, alright?”

Stiles chokes him that night on a couch in Derek’s apartment, thumbs pressing low at the neck, just slotting under his adam’s apple, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse under fingertips.

Derek squelches out breaths, wet and shallow, while Stiles fucks into his ass with tantric movements that’s slicked with saliva instead of lube because it’s just too fucking far. When he comes, it’s deep-seated; balls joined against cheeks then milks the last feeble spurts against the darkened, hairy rim of Derek’s asshole.

The first time Derek cries is when Stiles finally introduces that pocket knife into their play of sex.

Its two weeks into the New Year and they’re half an hour well into dry humping when Derek mutters against his lips, already kiss chafed from stubble and severe necking. “I want it—for that. You’ve been teasing you, and me, with that idea for… months now and—I’m ready, Stiles. _I’m ready_.”

There’s a long pull of silence between them before Stiles makes a punched out noise, scrabbling on top of him as he press hurried kisses off centre lips and cheeks because, _finally._ His heart is soaring with long awaited anticipation that almost hurts and all the happy _yes-es_ that are flooding in the thrum of his veins.

Stiles has been waiting, albeit impatiently for the past couple of weeks since they started fucking, but he never wants to take the next step until he knows Derek’s in the same place he’s at, mentally. He wants the enjoyment to be completely mutual—and _fuck_ , Derek finally _is_.

“Been waiting for so long. Fuck, I’m so hard already.” Stiles whispers frantically across collarbone, hands clutching at the hem of Derek’s shirt. “Gonna treat you real well, Derek. Make you feel like you’re going to soar, and bleed, and hurt so nicely for me.”

“ _Yes_ —all of that,” Derek groans low, tilting his head higher so that Stiles can access to that thin skin behind his ear—where his scent is most saturated with sweat, shampoo and the salty bite of flesh that Stiles always returns to nuzzle after fucking their bones pliant. “C’mon, want you to. Don’t tease, don’t drag it out.”

“I’ve waited too long to do this so I’m going to take my time with you.” Stiles says sternly.

Derek disagrees, of course, and snarls against Stiles’ neck with more fangs than vocal clarity, edging him to _get to it_ and Stiles hates that he loses a slight momentum of power exchange between them which Dream Derek was right all along—he likes having the upper-hand. He gets off on it, makes him leak at the slit of his cockhead.

Not putting up with it, Stiles thwacks Derek at the crotch, hard. There’s a dull throb of ache where his fingernail snapped against the metallic zipper of his jeans but it quickly soothes away when a full-body flinch arches up into him, shaking with such restrained force.

Derek hisses, eyes burning beta blues. “Don’t be an asshole, Stiles.”

“Oh,” Stiles laughs softly, clearly amused at Derek’s reaction. “I’ll be getting real acquainted with an asshole, and it’s definitely not mine tonight.”

Derek flushes and it’s so _pretty_ —so fucking pretty when the tips of his ears start to redden and his head ducks against his chest. Stiles can’t wait to uncover all that life line, make it drip and ooze until they dry and gets crusted into the sheets and under the bed of his fingernails like an uncensored masterpiece.

“You’ve got such a mouth on you,” Derek says.

Stiles snorts, “And I make real good use of it, don’t I?” He answers, inching Derek’s shirt up his torso, baring bronzed skin and the flutter of muscles jumping under the ghosting trail of his fingertips.

“Always,” Derek gusts out.

“You’ve got a nice one too,” Stiles mutters, looking at Derek’s mouth covered by his three day old stubble. His lips are almost a dusted flesh colour, dry cracks at the center of his bottom lip but it’s covered by a thin sheet of drying saliva from where Stiles was licking into his mouth minutes prior. “Especially when you’re choking on my cock, stretched wide to accommodate the girth—and just taking whatever I give you. Such a good mouth.”

Derek expels a shaky breath, eyes already drawing wet at the lash line. “Touch me. I can’t—just _touch me_. More.”

Stiles reaches behind to the back pocket of his jeans, slides that little kept away pocket knife out until the familiar weight is cradling on his palm.

It’s nothing too fancy and costs lesser than a meal at a fast food restaurant. Well, Stiles has to make do as he’s well in the final year of high school and saving up for college tuition in the fall. He knows that one day he’ll have an extensive set—one with a collective amount of different sizes, curves in the blades and a variety of wolfsbane to play it against Derek’s body.

He’ll probably even have a specially engraved knife to use for Derek, but he’s not going to be weird and mention it aloud.

Anyway, Stiles takes good care of his current pocket knife, always makes it a habit to wipe it down with pivot lubrication to prevent any bacteria to infecting the steel after he uses it on himself, and then shines it until he sees no more traces of fingerprints or the dip of blood at the tip.

“Where do you want me to touch you?” Stiles asks softly, pressing gentle kisses against the coarse, hairy skin of Derek’s chest. It should look ridiculous as Derek has his shirt rucked up to his armpits but Stiles is too caught up with how fucking good he looks, compliant and under him as he waits for Stiles to mark him.

“My face—” Derek hitches but then shakes his head adamantly, almost scolding himself that he even suggested it in the first place. “No. Start with your hands on my stomach. Go from there.”

“Are you sure?” Stiles teases, edges the knife against his belly button, making lazy circles around it. If he wasn’t hard from before, he sure would be watching the way Derek’s stomach trembles as he tempts. “Want me to carve you all pretty on the face? Have your cheeks wet with blood? But it’ll just heal over in seconds, that won’t be fun.”

“I can—control it.” Derek stutters and his hands are under Stiles’ ass, palming and grasping both cheeks. It’s almost as if Derek’s trying to mould the desperation under his skin and diffuse it through touch onto Stiles. “The healing. I’ll try to make them go slow but when things are getting too intense, I won’t be able to focus well on it. But I’ll make them go slow.”

The ‘ _for you’_ goes unsaid but Stiles hears it loudly in the quiet, laboured breaths they’re both sharing.

“You’re so good for me,” Stiles whispers and there’s an ache in his chest—the one that surmises whenever he thinks of his dad, or Scott, but a lot more. An ache that comprises of an entity that is _Derek Hale_ and palpitates with his life line. “Always watching out for me, for the pack that you’ve loved, and lost, and then rekindled with. Such a good beta—a _good boy_.”

Derek clenches his eyes and Stiles feels the sharp prick of claws digging lightly against his ass, through the thick denim.

“Tell me when you want me to stop. I _will_ stop. You always have control over this situation even though sometimes it doesn’t feel that way. _Always._ Got it?” Stiles tells vehemently and he wills Derek to understand because at the end of the day, Derek is _the_ reasoning.

Derek finally nods after a long, pregnant beat, albeit shakily, and a gust of breath leaves him when Stiles inches the glint of steel against dark grains of stubble, feels the faint rake of it under the plastic of his pocket knife.

God—Stiles wants to _wreck_ Derek like no man or woman has ever. Stiles wants to have him completely stripped to muscle and ripped skin before patching him and holding him against his frame, rocking him to soothe. So, he does.

When Stiles urges the tip against the thickest part of Derek’s cheek, a harsh resistance meets. The skin doesn’t break; instead it just sinks under the pressure of sharp steel, creating a temporary indentation. Derek’s eyes flutters open and the rings of light has long been washed out, just left with the thinnest brim of greens and a center of plague.

Then Derek makes this long, choked off sound—almost similar to the one that he made before he passed out in front of Stiles’ jeep a year ago, and a hot burst of fiery liquid spurts against knuckles and oozes in thick pulls with the pungent scent of rust.

Stiles’ eyes widen and his cock fucking throbs in his boxers because this is—so significantly _better._ Indescribably surpassing the kitchen incident (this also makes that situation like child’s play) and when Stiles lifts the knife away, he sees the fat, jagged wound he created that takes his breath away in a punch.

It’s _his_ mark—profound and deep as it wears on Derek’s face.

“More—” Derek hisses out, digging fingers into Stiles’ ass, hitching him up until he’s fully seated against his lap, directly under his crotch. That’s _hard._ Fuck, even though it has been consensual all this while, it still surprises Stiles that Derek is actually turned on by this—that he’s allowing Stiles to fuck him up like this even though he’s having the crap end to it.

“Don’t make me beg, Stiles.”

“You’re—” Stiles garbles out and he’s just so fucking out of his league right now.

Sure, he’s dreamt of doing this a few hundred times and thought of it even more but he’s not exactly _prepared_ for the aftermath of it. It’s always never been something palpable but not Stiles is witnessing it, experiencing with all his five senses and he can’t _think_ —can’t have a fluid thought process because Derek looks so damn _gorgeous_ dressed in red.

Or that it sort of seems like he’s actually _crying_ blood, because of the sweat dribbling off his temples—and _christ,_ Stiles’ cock twitches, dampening the insides of his boxers even more.

“I—” Stiles gulps thickly. “You’ve rendered me speechless, Hale.” He smudges the spill of warmth against Derek’s stubble, feeling almost ethereal as he watches red melds into skin. “Don’t have any words for how beautiful you look right now. God, next time, I’m going to take pictures of you, yeah, and keep ‘em. Have your pretty face to jerk off to during the lonely nights.”

“God, you can even video it if you just—Fucking. _Continue_.”

With that tempting threat in-hand, Stiles quickly swipes a small cut under Derek’s bottom lip. It’s not too deep that it separates the skin but just enough that the blood wells up and dribbles in thick streams, soaking the pillow beneath his head.

Stiles leans down with the urge to taste him at the source and lap it all of it until he’s tasting slick and copper at the back of his teeth but the pungent scent of Derek’s blood is heady, almost making him gag. It makes him _throb._

Derek opens up, welcomes the slide of Stiles’ tongue into his mouth, and their moans trap and rumble into the hollow of each other’s cheeks. He tastes the distinct bite of rust and salt but beneath that, it’s that familiar texture of Derek—smoky warmth and a tangy twist that reminds Stiles a little like having come settle in his mouth after a good blowjob.

Stiles grounds his ass onto Derek’s cock, feels the damp heat of their trapped bodies in between his thighs and against his groin. It’s making him sweat—getting him overtly aroused in ways that reminds him the first time he fucked an orgasm out of his little prick when he was nine.

“More—please, Stiles.” Derek grits out as thin string of saliva and blood pulling when they part from the kiss. “Never gon’ beg ever after this but you’re teasing. You’re _fucking teasing_ and I can’t—you gotta— _please_.”

Stiles smirks when Derek groans in defeat when his jeans doesn’t budge from where he’s trying to inch it down at his ass but instead, slides two fingers, lodges them at the cleft where it’s damp with a pool of gathered sweat.

“I’ll get to it, I promise. When have I ever left you hanging, doll?” Stiles says, placating. “But I’m not going to fuck you tonight, neither are you. Tonight, ‘m gonna make you come in your pants like a teenager—like _me_. This little jailbait’s ass gonna hump all that come that’s begging in your balls.”

“Fuck— _fuck you_.” Derek hisses and his eyes are a bright flare of sky blues, jerking his hips up to search more friction on his sore cock. “Hate you s’much. Never hated anyone as much as I hated you. God—”

Stiles laughs against his bloodied cheek then presses his face against it, feeling the wetness catch against the edge of his eyelashes and brows. He must look like a menace with wild hair and face smeared with another’s red but this heightened sense of exuberance and arousal eliminates any and all shame—he’s fucking inhuman right now.

He edges the knife against Derek’s right nipple, watches the jump of muscle underneath his pec as Stiles glides circles around the rosy, dusted areola. It’s fascinating watching the skin around pebble, prickling under the dirtied blade before he slits an imperfect circle around the nipple.

Derek clutches at his ass cheeks, nails digging almost painfully as he fucks his hips up, choking out a wet whine that drives pleasure zings into Stiles’ bones. He feels his body clenching tight around that sound, watching to memorize it and fuck to it when he’s alone at home in the night, pistoning his dick into the round of his fist.

The blood here is a darker shade, thicker in texture too as it wells to the surface in a gush. Probably because it’s surrounded by a better layer of flesh, muscle and fats and god, Stiles wants to fucking bathe in it. He wants to drain Derek and be dressed in warmth until no amount of showers could ever scrub all of it away.

“Stiles—” Derek gasps and Stiles finally looks up into his eyes, they’re wet—already drawing a steady flow of tears and fuck. He was right. Derek is breath-taking like this, just a broken little supernatural boy that wants to be hurt by another broken human teenager.

“I got you, babe. Let go for me. C’mon, you’ve so good to me now I’m gonna let you see white. Do it, babe.” Stiles mutters against Derek’s temples, gyrating his hips with more purpose, urging it down with pressure and friction against Derek’s clothed cock.

It’s not long before Derek starts whining a steady stream of babble, fucking two fingers into the slick of his ass crack consistently as he garbles out, “Fuck, yes—like that. God, I’m gonna—don’t you fucking stop. Please, don’t—oh, Christ. I— _Stiles_.”

Derek’s breath chokes off after that and Stiles feels the twitches under him as the orgasm rips through him, the way the shocks vibrate through his skin makes him drop his knife at the side of the bed, clutching onto biceps as he helps milks the last of his spending.

When Derek’s pliant and swallowing large bouts of air beneath, Stiles hastily unzips his jeans and pulls his heavy cock out from his boxers. The cockhead is an ugly, swollen shade of purple, slick with pre-come that Stiles doesn’t even need to swipe a line of spit onto his palm that he starts fisting his cock, frenzy and careless.

When his balls start to tighten, a low trepidation burning at the low of his abdomen and he hisses out a warning to Derek before he comes, and it spurts against the hard line of muscles at his torso, the edge of his chest and then the last dribbles weakly slide against his shaft.

Stiles collapses onto Derek, legs edging out and the twinge of sore muscles from having it bent for too long makes a harsh protest.

He’s nuzzling into the shallow creak at the back of Derek’s ear, slowly gathering back all his bearings.

“Jesus, I’ve officially died and seen the light. 10/10 would do it again.” Stiles croaks and feels the reverent slide of fingers scratching at his scalp. Yeah, his sweet to-go spot on Derek after fucking may be the back of his ear, but Derek, though, likes petting him—either his hair, neck, or the length of his back.

Stiles doesn’t admit but it soothes him a lot—reminds him of a time before the supernatural shenanigans and it was just… _easy._

In other words, being with Derek—everything they have? Yeah, it’s easy. And he thinks after five months of sneaking around, hasty hand jobs and even messier blowjobs—Stiles thinks it could be time to just put everything on the table for the rest. Tell everyone that they care about they’re together, have been for the past few months.

He’ll take the lewd comments that they’ll throw at him because he knows at the end of the day, he’ll still get to share these quiet moments with Derek. Just him and not with the others.

“I think I just had an epiphany after sex.” Stiles says.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Derek huffs and Stiles squawks at him, pushing elbows up to look at his face. He’s already well healed up at the cuts he made on his face because they aren’t steadily leaking red like before but just a halted smear of blood on the entirety of his profile.

“I’m ready to tell the others.” Stiles tells haltingly, carefully watching the reaction on Derek’s face. “About us, I mean. Not the sex thing. I don’t think we should ever tell them that—because, you know. They’ll probably judge us. Especially Scott.”

Derek groans, snuffling his face into Stiles’ neck. “What did I say about mentioning Scott while we’re both in bed and are somewhat naked?”

“Well… we aren’t technically naked.”

“Still a little shit, aren’t you?”

“A little shit that just made you come in your pants.” Stiles teases, laughing until it dies out with a swoop when Derek twists a leg around his thigh and flips him over onto the bed.

“Still meant what I said when I hate you,” Derek says softly but his eyes holds a glazed, fond look. Then he leans down, presses an off-centre kiss on his lips. “Okay, we’ll tell them as long you’re ready.”

“I am,” Stiles assures and arches up for another kiss, something proper and leaves them a little breathless and hazy after. He probably should tuck his softened dick back into his pants but, fuck it. “I’m so stupid over you, you know that, right?”

“Likewise.”

Derek crawls up beside him and they do this little dance of straightening their clothes out and passing clean tissue wipes until Stiles laughs, something too bright and sudden in the small of Derek’s room.

“Fuck, you do know that we need to burn your sheets now, right?”

Derek looks like he doesn’t even give a shit, shrugging. “I’ll just buy cheaper sheets next time so it won’t be such a waste if they get ruined again.”

Stiles’ mind ultimately blacks out, cock twitching feebly as it tries to get a little hard again after coming just five minutes prior, by thinking up all the darkest fantasies they could do next time.

When he’s at home that night, Stiles writes up a list of all the things he wants to do on that little black book, in neat bullet points under Derek’s name and finishes it off with a bloodied thumbprint.

**FIN.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... it's done! (Instead of studying for my exams which I was supposed to do :p) I'd like to thank vampireisthenewblack and her wonderful prompt on tw kink meme! Hopefully you guys are satiated with it, I felt like it could go a little darker, especially surrounding more talk about the "darkness" from the nemeton, but I felt canon stuff aren't really up to my alley. I'm more of an AU author :3
> 
> Thank you for following me on this dark, mystifying journey where Stiles just spirals down into a pit hole of hot, bloody sex :D I love all you guys <3

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's a WIP and it's just a look into Stiles' beginning trials of this "darkness" and I like where I'm taking this story to. I admit, it's a lot darker than most of the fics that I've posted up on ao3 because I've been having the roughest week (emotional wise due to an ended relationship on not too nice terms) and I'm planning to deal all of that... angst out into words instead of retreating back into old, bad habits. (booze, and all the ~creys)
> 
> So, I hope intrigued readers will hold my hand and stay tuned. Any feedback is great :)


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